Vixen leaned back in the comfortable, first-class seat on the Icelandic 777, and tried to relax. She had only been away from home a little over a month, and her life was changing again. Her brief career as the star of a X-rated, full-length film had been short but interesting and now she was returning to her real world of men's lust and college courses. She sighed and looked out at cloud tops.
"Ah well," she thought as she wrapped herself in a light blanket, "at least I'm rich." She smiled thinking about her Irish bank account and some of the young men she had met and enjoyed in Cornwall.
Without luggage except for her backpack, she quickly passed through the airport and hurried to catch an Amtrac train to Rome, New York. She got there early in the morning and walked the mile or so to her home, wondering if her father would have some bimbo in his bed.
At the backdoor, she knocked hard and in a minute or so, after several hammerings, an upstairs window came open and her father yelled, "Who the hell is that?"
"Me, Daddy, I'm home," she answered.
The window slammed down, and she stood and waited. Soon her sleepy-eyed father, wearing his old robe over his nakedness, unlocked the back door and hurried off toward his bed. "Talk tomorrow," he said over his shoulder.
Vixen got in the paper, turned on the coffee maker, fried some bacon and then scrambled some eggs and then sat and relaxed as she ate her breakfast. Then she went upstairs, stripped, showered, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and went down to kiss her father and sit with him as he ate.
"What happened?" he asked. "How come you're home?"
"Guess?" she said with a grin.
He nodded. "Money?"
"Yep, somebody absconded or backed out or defaulted or something, and they ran out after exposing a couple of miles of film. But I'm rich. Mine's in an Irish bank."
He made a face and squinted at her. "You checked lately?"
Vixen shook her and hurried to her father's little office and his computer. She accessed the bank, entered her code and asked for her balance.
"Account closed," was the message.
She quickly e-mailed the producer who had hired her and promised her fifty-thousand for the summer's work.
The e-mail bounced.
When she told her father, he hugged her and patted her back. "Joey Rogers in here in town shooting a series, bunch of date-rape things using my props. You want to do a set for him. He pays two thousand an hour, no sex, and five thousand for the full ride."
"Damn," she said, "I'll think about it. But you haven't welcomed me home."
Together they hurried up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Vixen's father, after tossing aside his boxers, fell on his bed, smiling and still wearing his socks. Vixen stripped, straightened up his cock in a couple of minutes with her practiced hands and talented tongue and then she threw a long leg over her father's hips and slowly eased herself down his big pole while he reached up to enjoyed her firm breasts, the ones that were hers and not the pair he paid for. Vixen bounced and groaned, happy to be home.
When her father was spent, Vixen went to her father's sound-proof studio on the basement where the visiting cameraman was doing a two-on-one sex scene. She leaned back and admired the young girl's ability to keep sucking a white kid while a big black man was pounding her ass.
When that was over and all three young people got dressed and left, cash in hand, Vixen introduced herself to the sweating photographer who was sucking on a bottle of flavored water.
"Yeah, I remember you. Let me see them," Joey said with a smile as he changed his camera's thick back.
Vixen pulled her t-shirt over her curly head and clasped her hands in the small of her back. Her lovely breasts barely jiggled.
"Shit," said Rogers, "that's as good a set of jugs as I've ever seen, but they look like they've been through a meatgrinder." He lifted her left breast and tenderly peeled off the two small bandages. "I can't use you."
"Think of your audience, man," said Vixen. "Of the perverts out there who would love to see this girl hurt, who would enjoy hurting her." She grinned at him, remembering the sex scene in which her leading man bit her. "I was making a movie in England and it got a bit rough."
"You're right. Let's powder her, Samantha, and get me that gauzy outfit, the one with the gold trim. OK, strip."
.... There is more of this story ...